


Am I led; am I leading?

by wreathed



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Cambridge, Class Issues, Dry Humping, Frottage, Humor, M/M, Muscular Christianity, Rowing, Shame Edward Little Power Hour, The Unspeakable Vice Of The Greeks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:07:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26278387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreathed/pseuds/wreathed
Summary: Cambridge, 1910. Edward Little is plodding through life just fine, thank you very much, and certainly doesn’t need rowing blue and all-round good egg Graham Gore to upend his entire existence.
Relationships: Lt Graham Gore/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 16
Kudos: 32





	Am I led; am I leading?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Poose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/gifts).



A long-term early riser due to the habits of his education rather than true personal preference, Edward is nevertheless choosing under the press of no schoolmaster to make this his routine: to wake at six o’clock in the morning, take a morning constitutional beside the Cam to some spot approximately (but never precisely) opposite St Catharine's boat house, then lie back against the searing green of Midsummer Common and get an hour of reading done in attractive surroundings before his lectures begin in earnest.

It is entirely a coincidence that as Edward does this, half-heartedly attempting to concentrate on the microscopic print of his book, eight strong men grunt (and one small man shouts) their way along the water.

Out of these men, one in particular is the one to most successfully distract him from his studies. Sitting stroke, Gore’s well-formed knees show between the hem of his shorts and top of his socks, and he wears a practice shirt that does not conceal his browning forearms. Thrice weekly, over the course of the term, Edward has seen the colour come into them. Gore is a man who looks at home in a boat.

Over the course of this academic year, Edward has considered it likely that there are certain things about men he took the time to think about where most others did not. Gore is not even the most unsuitable subject of his secret meditations. There is that gardener who works for Edward’s college, the well-built Merseyside man he has sometimes spent up to twenty minutes at a time staring at from the window of his set, elevated above Front Court and hidden from view (or so he hopes) by a floor-to-ceiling curtain. Out of his stupor he would eventually fall, then look down and find there is the rest of his textbook still waiting to be read. The man’s well-honed arms were for hard work, Edward would remind himself sternly, and not for the purposes of anything else. 

Even if the gardener would be interested enough, which seems vanishingly unlikely, to risk his employment and a great deal else just to spend some convivial time with an undergraduate, there would be practically no feasible occasion that Edward would have to even approach him to open up the possibility. If he is to attempt to be honest with himself, this fact makes Edward breathe a sigh of relief.

Gore, however, is somewhat of a societal (and social) superior, but they live in adjacent colleges and are both reading Mechanical Sciences. It would be one mortifying thing for Gore to ever spot Edward’s incongruously regular presence on the riverbank or, God forbid, acknowledge him with a friendly sort of wave once his training is finished, gently gleaming with sweat. Yet, despite Edward’s relative institutional obscurity, to not hail him at a lecture theatre or when passing in cap and gown on King’s Parade would be unspeakably rude, and Gore would never do anything that was impolite, nor improper, nor inverted. It is easy to notice him in any busy throng: he is tall, and his face is conspicuously handsome when viewed at close quarters.

Edward is regularly clapped on the shoulder by some well-meaning classmate or other, but there is never any meaning to that sort of contact. They are touches of unthinking utility, the mind elsewhere, like a grappling at the waist when wheeling a rugby scrum. Gore manages to be popular with every group of gents, and the sort to talk to whomever he is sat next to out of an ethos of decency and good breeding, rather than speaking only to those who held any interest or usefulness to him personally.

The following day, Gore proves this evaluation of him correct when he happens to be seated next to Edward at a lecture Edward is finding difficult to follow. When they are dismissed, Gore asks Edward in a well-meaning manner if he has yet to read a book he has never before heard of, which has the unfortunate effect of immediately sending Edward into a spiralling panic. So distracted by his concern over having missed some vital information everyone else in the room must already know, it is only after their conversation has finished and Gore has departed to chat to yet another hale-looking close-knit group he is acquainted with that Edward fully appreciates he has nodded his agreement to visit Gore’s set and borrow said book later that evening.

*

As soon as the Provost finishes a (somewhat slurred, though that is not unusual) saying of _Benedic, Domine, nos_ , Edward takes his seat and eats quickly, finding himself (despite his nervousness) eager to leave hall as soon as he can manage to, although such anticipation is foolish for a clean-living fellow who only wishes to lend out a book. Edward nods along indecorously, mouth full, to George’s verbose evaluation of each course and the wine that has been brought out for them.

Edward scrapes back his chair and departs as soon as pudding has been dispatched, his progress only momentarily delayed by getting the sleeve of his gown caught on the back of the chair. Somewhat self-consciously, he neatens his beard during the short walk over to Gore’s rooms; he is adamant on continuing to maintain a full beard even though nothing could be less the fashion.

The year is approaching the long-reaching evenings of summer proper, but tonight forsakes him in fading light as he makes his way around Sherlock Court.

Gore greets Edward without his jacket, though still in collar, tie and waistcoat, and with only socks on his feet, evidently in for the night. He cheerily invites Edward into his sitting room with a gentle hand at Edward’s shoulder, his set deserted — apparently Fairholme is often elsewhere, paying little heed to the requirement to reside within three miles of Great St. Mary's — then apologises for not being able to offer Edward tea.

“Bridgens has retired for the evening; we shan’t be bothered,” Gore tells him, and Edward is glad of that, for whatever quality Edward exudes it apparently radiates sufficiently for even college servants to in general hold a low opinion of him. Gibson, the man for his staircase, typically has to be rung for several times, and only ever follows Edward’s instructions with whatever the minimum effort required is to technically complete them.

“Do you have that book you mentioned?” Edward asks into what he can only possibly perceive as uncomfortable silence, seated opposite Gore in a deep green wingback as he takes his arms out of his gown. It is unnerving to be so near to Gore after discreetly spending so long observing him from a distance. For Edward, the move from spectator to spotlighted participant is rarely a comfortable one.

“I’ll have to remember where I’ve stowed it. I’m not long in from encouraging a first year in his mathematics. Goodsir is from a middling background and so a little less confident than he should be, but his anatomy knowledge especially is really very good.”

“That’s a very kind thing of you to do,” Edward says politely. So many men view Gore so well; Edward is not in a rush to expose himself as just another unremarkable addition to the list. Better to be roundly unremarkable, in a way.

“Perhaps we could play a game of something, if you have the time?” Gore asks, gesturing towards his card table. “We are not enough for whist, I’m afraid.”

He has likely deduced, quite correctly, that Edward is not well-suited to rough-and-tumble sports. No stranger to the buttery, Edward eats as he wishes and does not aim to deliberately collide himself with any physical pursuits. Gore is the well-deserved rowing star, and competes in cricket and tennis as well, and all this at a college that cares especially deeply about sport. St Catharine's Master is both pious and a strong believer in the well-rounded benefits of vigorous physical competition for young men. Naturally, Gore is one of his favourite students.

“Of course,” Edward says, and Gore gets out a pack of cards from the table’s drawer with one of his elegant hands. He has a golden glow to him as though lit by candlelight, although there is none in the room, and Edward feels in himself something untoward.

Wishing to at least to attempt to distract himself, Edward takes a look around the room, seeing that on the walls hang various paintings, mostly of ships, which Edward does not recognise as being copies of the usual masters. “Did you paint these?” Edward asks.

“I did,” Gore replies with a touch of healthy modesty. Was there anything this man cannot turn his hands to? And to be so well put together, too. 

Gore splits out the pack for Briscan, then deals. There doesn’t seem to have been the raising of the suggestion that they play for money, Edward notes, as they discuss some further particulars of their tripos. Edward’s concentration dips once again when he finds he has been dealt a poor hand, then realises it is possible to see some of the shape of Gore’s biceps from within his shirtsleeves.

“Aha! Marriage,” Gore smiles, turning his cards to reveal the king and queen of spades. Edward coughs and manages a wry smile in return that he hope conveys congratulations.

Gore stretches his back against his chair as though he is experiencing a troublesome ache, and then, relaxed and comfortable in his own realm, casually props his stockinged feet up on Edward’s thighs. Edward, to his shame, jumps like a frightened rabbit.

“I’m nowhere close,” Edward says around a swallow, holding his hand of cards aloft. They carry on playing, but Edward is entirely unable to follow the score as Gore’s feet flex distractedly close to the point between his legs where his body betrays him. No doubt Sir John Franklin, Gore’s college’s Master, would put this inability to sensibly control himself down to Edward having not diverted enough of his energy into representing King’s at any sport at all. Not even one of the less prestigious half blue ones, like Eton Fives.

After some indeterminate number of further rounds that Edward assumes he must be losing as he sits and waits, cheeks flushed, for this all to be over, in sharp contrast to Gore’s clear-headed friendliness, Gore tells him slyly: “I didn't know Briscan could be quite this exciting to anyone.”

Why the blazes has Gore acknowledged it? Why has he not simply packed up his things, repulsed, and asked Edward to leave? Edward has heard of the Adonians at Peterhouse, but he has not heard of anything of that sort going on from anyone he knew at his own college or at Gore’s. One or two of the classicists somewhere perhaps, but they are men of science!

“I am sorry,” Edward chokes, as red as the pelmet that hangs behind him. “The worst—”

He is cut off, for the words feel dry in his mouth, and he would rather cease his apology than risk making any kind of more incriminating sound; Gore’s foot once again rubs at the top of his thigh, and Edward strains to stop himself pressing up against it.

“What sort of thing do you fancy?” Gore asks, and Edward splutters. It is like being asked what you would like to order before you have had the opportunity to open the menu.

“Why on earth would you do this? Risk your good standing? You don’t have to.” 

“It doesn't need to be announced from a lectern at Senate House,” Gore says with all his usual good nature. “Anything I can do to help. I fancied you might not be opposed.”

 _What is that supposed to mean?_ Edward wonders, or would wonder if his brain had been left with much capacity left over. Untroubled by anything other than his own hand prior to this experience, Edward feels notably close to some end being reached before they have even embraced.

“This needn’t be all. You should visit the family place in Devon over the vac,” Gore continues as if holding a regular cultivated conversation. “My sisters would adore you, I’m sure.”

Edward can’t help but make an uncomfortable face; he has enough sisters of his own to content with, and he does not wish to think of them now. Thankfully Gore seems to understand him despite his usual social clumsiness, and laughs with an attractive radiance rather than taking it as a personal slight. Then Gore proceeds to press down his heel quite deliberately, finding the insistent shape of Edward’s prick under his trousers, and Edward feels himself overwhelmed with warm desire.

“I should like to spend more time together, you know. If we could get away to Grantchester just by ourselves, we could steal away to the weir pool and take a swim.”

Edward groans, he realises with some indignity, at the thought of seeing the full stretch of Gore’s nude body and all the effort that has gone into it: the muscled rower’s arms, the broad chest. His solid, sturdy thighs, and perhaps a proper look at what hangs between them. Hands clenched around the arms of the chair, he rubs himself against Gore again with increasing desperation.

It would be entering into a liaison with the vision of the man Edward should have been, which should be more off-putting than Edward found it to be in actuality. They would flee and find their bucolic paradise; they could most likely get there by car or punt, but the flight of fancy that enters his brain is Gore dressed as a country gentlemen as he would be at home, in tall riding boots and astride a particularly muscular horse.

One final firm push from Gore’s foot, out-in-the-air deliberate now, cards long since abandoned, and Edward spends with an indelicate gasp, the resultant hot stickiness trapped by his woollen trousers and damp against his skin. Trembling, he opens his eyes to look blearily at Gore, who looks proud but embarrassingly composed. 

“There,” Gore says, solicitous. He looks slightly surprised at Edward’s sudden culmination, but not displeased. “I wouldn’t want you to be anything but relaxed before you retire for the night.”

 _Relaxed_. The idea that Edward is going be anything but awake for most of the night, wrought with overthinking and staring at the ceiling, was laughable. He wouldn’t be able to so much as look at his and George’s own card table ever again.

Gore makes a check of his pocket watch and makes a noise of surprise. “It’s after a quarter to ten! You’re going to be out after curfew, old chap. Oh, and here’s that book.” He picks it up from a small side table and presses it into Edward’s hands, and there is an apparent warmth when their fingers momentarily touch.

Edward cannot see into Gore’s lap very well. It seems Gore is not asking anything of him, at least not tonight, and Edward is somewhat glad, since he does not feel presently equipped to give it.

Edward sighs, still feeling sluggish and dumbfounded over what has just occurred, as he puts his gown back on and picks up his cap. “I hardly relish begging the night porter to let me in without reporting me to Crozier for reprimand at this hour,” he says. “And so it shall have to mean my scaling Wilkins Building in the dark.”

To leave Gore’s rooms, he has to climb out of the window like a departing burglar. At least they are on the ground floor.

*

Edward wonders — hopes — Gore will follow through on his word and they shall meet again, perhaps this time with Edward’s knowledge and capabilities successfully heightened.

Nothing of any difficulty has ever happened to Gore, Edward senses, as he manages to vault himself over the fence at the end of Scholars’ Piece on only his fourth try, glaringly aware of the mortifying mess in his trousers as each attempt is made. Thankfully, his surrounds have been deserted so far. If Edward had any sort of scandal befall him, he would get sent down, and then he would have no choice but to follow his father into the Navy.

“Happy birthday, sir,” he hears from the shadows, just after he’s crossed the river and is preparing to climb up to his own bedroom window. He starts, then turns towards the noise. It’s the Merseyside gardener, his arms folded against a shirt still muddy from his work. Outside late, too. On his way home, or waiting for something to happen?

“Mine? It’s… not for months. Not until December,” Edward manages to respond, his hand going to hold his academic gown over some of the front of him in a way he dearly hopes isn’t too conspicuous.

“Gibson let us all know,” the gardener replies by way of explanation. “It looks like he was mistaken.”

“How kind of him,” Edward returns, sharp as he can manage.

“Could get you a ladder, if it were needed,” he says, jerking his head towards the very window Edward has spent so much time watching him from. One look of amusement troubles his face, and Edward feels completely exposed. 

“Be on your way now,” Edward says sternly, the commending effect only somewhat ruined by his stammer and the colour to his face. The gardener smirks at him in a worrying kind of manner, then carries on his way towards the bridge, vanishing in the darkness.

Edward waits until total silence falls once again before moving forward and tackling the relevant drainpipe and windowsills and with ungainful enthusiasm. His heart beats much too loudly in his chest.

“Good evening, sir,” Gibson tells him as he enters his and George’s sitting room through the open window, and the words are proper but Gibson to make his observation on Edward’s conduct clear. Edward scowls and heads straight for his bedroom, no attempt at politeness made and desperately hopes nothing unusual about his trousers was noticed. He has a long sleepless night ahead of him to consider his nature.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://wreathedwith.tumblr.com/post/628295470973911040/am-i-led-am-i-leading-wreathed-the-terror).
> 
> Got tricked into writing this by [Poose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/Poose)'s noble efforts to get Edward Little shamed and nailed throughout the ages.
> 
> This fic is brought to you by Maurice and Muscular Christianity. Somewhere out there, Divinity undergraduate John Irving is having an absolute time of it.


End file.
